


Nine Lives

by Like_a_teddy_bear



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels, Fallen Angels, M/M, Wingfic, angel!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-14 21:10:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2203233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Like_a_teddy_bear/pseuds/Like_a_teddy_bear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock never placed his safety at the top of his priorities when working on a case, but suddenly he's finding himself in an increasing number of life-or-death situations. Despite all odds, life triumphs over death. Could it be that someone is looking out for him? Protecting him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Arsonist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! This is my second fanfic, I'd love it if you took the time to read the other too (it's called Saving Grace, also Johnlock) . Both are currently a WIP, and I can't promise regular updates, life just wont allow it. I've developed a love for Wingfic recently, so when the idea of this story popped into my mind I just had to get writing.
> 
> Thank you in advance for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

Sherlock chuckled to himself as Lestrade’s comment echoed in his mind; “I’m letting you in, Sherlock, but you can’t go off on your own”. Did he actually believe for one second that Sherlock would follow these orders? Of course he didn’t, but he needed Sherlock, as always, incapable of doing the job on his own. Leaving the police station after explaining his theory of the arsonists next move, Sherlock hailed a taxi, ordering to be taken to “Chisenhale works”. Arriving on the scene 20 minutes later, handing the driver a stack of notes, Sherlock analysed the dilapidated factory in front of him from behind the chain-link fence, which towered over him. Unsurprised, he found that the gate was padlocked shut. Despite the sheer size and complexity of the lock, Sherlock was unfazed. With years of lock-picking experience under his belt, he broke into the grounds with ease, shutting the gate behind him to reduce suspicion in the unlikely event of someone passing by.

Sherlock marched up to the doors of the building, so old that they required little more than a barge of his right shoulder to open. Prior to entering the building, a scan of the surroundings allowed the detective to deduce that the arsonist would enter the grounds on the opposite side, forcing entry through the fence using wire cutters, after weaving through the surrounding abandoned streets to eliminate the chance of being spotted. With this in mind, Sherlock was able to infer that the suspect would enter through the back of the building. He began the journey to the entry point he anticipated as the criminals arrival point, striding through the giant open spaces, clambering over large piles of rubble or precariously creeping across beams in the floor as close to the wall as possible due to the floor having fallen through. As he neared the room separating him from his final destination his right hand reached into the left inside pocket of his suit. Removing his hand again, bringing with it his hand gun, he slowly turned the handle and opened the door a crack.

“Police, place your hands behind your head,” Sherlock shouted, lying, as he peered around the side of the door, gun passing through the doorway ahead of him. To his surprise, he found the room empty, swinging the door fully open.

“This isn’t right,” Sherlock mumbled to himself, walking back the way he came after slamming the door shut in anger. He zoned out to his surroundings and zoned into his mind palace, recalling facts previously stored about the layout of the factory. Two entrances on the ground floor, the only floor. Other than the basement, of course, but no method of entry there. No windows big enough to enter through up here. “Oh, stupid!” Sherlock scolded himself for overlooking an obvious alternative. He hadn’t accounted for the fact that the arsonist could enter the building in the same way as he himself had, silly mistake. Snapping back into reality, Sherlock gasped at the scene that surrounded him. It seemed he had zoned out for a greater stretch of time than he first though. In the period he had spent searching his mind palace for the relevant information regarding the layout of the disused factory, the arsonist had been and gone, leaving Sherlock stood alone in a burning building.

Forcing himself not to panic, Sherlock observed his location in order to determine his whereabouts and the start point of the fire. With the addition of the blaze altering his perspective of the room, he found it difficult to process his position. Eventually he discovered that he was currently in one of the first rooms he passed through when he entered the ancient building. Evidently he had walked further than he realised in his distracted state, and therefor only a few rooms stood between him and safety. Unfortunately, with this revelation, it became increasingly likely that the fire had, in fact, been started where he originally entered the factory, rendering his current escape plan useless.

Sherlock turned on his heels and began to race through the building, the sound of the roaring fire gradually fading as the distance increased. He found himself stopping far too many times for his liking, dealing with the same obstructions he faced earlier. He sprinted for the door he had previously expected the arsonists presence behind, confident with his way out in sight, grasped and turned the handle. As the door swung open he noticed burning sensation in his hand, causing him to snatch it away from the handle. Sucking a breath in through his teeth in pain, he furrowed his brow and scrutinised the injury; skin beginning to redden, small blisters would soon be forming. His worst fears were realised as he drew his attention back to the room in front of him, slowly lifting his head; another fire.

His breathing became rapid and his palms turned clammy as his mind frantically searched for a way out. He knew, deep down, that there was no chance of escape, but he refused to give up without a fight. The two doors, front and back, currently blocked off by a wall of fire, were the only means of escape. That meant he needed to get past the blaze up ahead and through the door that stood between almost certain death and safety. Flames now started licking their way around the door frame, and he knew the room in which he stood would soon be engulfed. His eyes frantically searched for something to put out the flames, but there was nothing. The factory’s water supply had been shut off for years. With no expectation, he drew out his mobile phone, praying for just one bar of signal. Nothing.

Just as he began to surrender to his defeat, a bright light erupted from the room ahead. He squinted his eyes, straining to see the source of the glow, aware that this had nothing to do with the fire. To his amazement, the fire at his feet receded to the sides of the room, creating a direct route to the door. He took a hesitant step forward. When nothing happened he continued down the pathway, gingerly at first, then speeding up until he found himself running as fast as possible. As he neared the door it swung open without any assistance, slamming shut as soon as he passed through the threshold.


	2. Fan Mail

Nearly two weeks had passed since Sherlock’s close encounter, and he was still no closer to solving his mysterious survival. It was starting to become a hindrance to his work, zoning out while deducing at a crime scene, his mind wavering to the bright light he witnessed moments before the fire parted at his feet. On more than one occasion he had contemplated deleting the memory completely, but it felt too important to ignore.

After escaping the burning building, Sherlock had awaited the arrival of Lestrade's team, considering his cover story all the while.

"So, what have you got for me then?", Lestrade asked.

"Judging by the spread of the fire," sherlock answered, looking over his shoulder at the burning building, his stomach turned at the memory, but his face remained unreadable, "the arsonist must have started two fires; one at each entrance to the building. From the level of fire damage we can ascertain that the first fire to be started was that at the front entrance to the building, the second at the rear.".

It proved difficult to remain disconnected from the crime, especially once the empty-headed Anderson arrived on the scene, making his foolish comments on the validity of Sherlock’s perspective of the case. On more than one occasion, Sherlock came close to blurting out something along the lines of "I was there!" when questioned about his method of deduction.

A few days after, with no cases available to centre his attention, a note arrived under the door to 221B Baker Street. Looking back on the event, Sherlock should have been more concerned about the fact that whoever the letter was from had gained access to the building, having posted the note under the threshold to 221B, rather than through the letter box in the door adjoining with the street in the conventional manner.

 

_Sherlock,_

_Getting bored? Don’t worry, I completely empathise with you on that one. Everyone else is just so… ordinary._

_I’ve got a treat in store for you, just solve this riddle and I promise you won’t be bored any longer... Everyone loves a good riddle, right?_

_**Bound by an arch of marble, many names have been given to me,** _

_**Half way a circus, a market and many more stores for thee.** _

_**Find me deep underground, not damp nor dark,** _

_**But time is tick-tick-ticking away, you’d better act fast.** _

__

_Your biggest fan x_

 

After reading the letter, any sane person would have contacted the police, but Sherlock had never been normal. After deducing all he could from the mystery note in a matter of minutes, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

That was the chain of events that led to Sherlock being stood in the basement of the only disused building on Oxford street, eyes fixated on a cardboard box in the centre of the room. Hesitantly, peering around and over his shoulder as he went, Sherlock made his way across the room until he stood looking directly down on the box. He crouched down, resting his hands on the floor in front to maintain his balance on his feet, as examined the area around the mystery item. Finding nothing of significance, he carefully pried open the top of the box, breath catching in his throat at what he witnessed before him. A bomb.

A bomb, more specifically, programmed to detonate exactly two minutes after activation. Knowing he was out of his depth, needing the assistance of bomb squad, Sherlock rose, shifting on his feet and leaning to one side to allow his hand easier access to his inside jacket pocket. Drawing out his phone, Sherlock plugged in the number, now memorised due to the frequency of calls needed to be made directly to DI Lestrade. After a few rings Sherlock briefly became aware of a voice in his left ear, but his mind was centred elsewhere; the timer on the bomb had been activated, ticking down the seconds.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open in his realisation, "So that's what they meant by 'time is tick-tick-ticking away... STUPID!".

"What is it? What are you talking about? Seriously, Sherlock, you phoned me, now just bloody well explain what’s going on to me!". Sherlock hung up, abruptly dropping his phone to the floor as he fell to his knees, frantically searching for a method to deactivate the bomb. No time to call for bomb squad now.

When analysing the mystery letter he had completely overlooked that last line, believing the sender was simply referring to time running out before he arrived here, not a countdown on a bomb. In that eureka moment, another section of the note scrolled across his mind; 'I promise you won’t be bored any longer...', of course he wouldn't be bored any more if he was blown to bits!

Coming back to his senses, Sherlock realised that there was not long left to go now. After a further minute of wracking his brain for even the minutest detail of how to escape this situation alive, he lost all hope; if nothing had sprung to his mind by now then nothing would. He couldn’t stop the bomb, but at least he wouldn’t be bored ever again, just like his ‘fan’ had said.

It suddenly occurred to him that this day had gradually developed into a near replica of what happened a few days prior; intense boredom leading to rash decisions then a life or death situation with no apparent way out to top it all off. As he considered this further, he realised that, despite all odds, he’d managed to escape last time, so why couldn’t the same happen now?

As the last few seconds ticked down Sherlock stood expectantly awaiting the bright light that had appeared before him last time, when he was saved, but it never came. He stood, head bowed to the floor, eyes scrunched tightly shut and hands clenched into fists as he braced himself for his fate.

The seconds passed by. Despite the sensation of time slowing down, Sherlock knew the two minutes had passed by now. He slowly pried his eyelids open, confused by what he saw; the timer on the bomb had reached its end, 00:00, but no damage was visible.

As his pulse began to slow, calming down once again, Sherlock frowned as his gaze set upon an envelope under the bomb. After carefully pulling it out, he inspected it before opening. It was clearly another note from the sender of his first piece of ‘fan mail’.

 

_Tut tut tut, Sherlock. I’m disappointed in you. Failing to notice the telling signs of a fake bomb in your rush of panic?… I guess I over estimated you, you’re just like everyone else, **ordinary.**_

_I’ll give you one chance to prove me wrong, but you’d better be prepared next time._

_Your disappointed biggest fan x_


End file.
